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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25227928">When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean'>Tiofrean</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Life in the time of peace [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lord of the Rings (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Aragorn is a Virgin, Developing Relationship, Faramir is Awesome, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Rimming, Sequel, Sweet, Tenderness, Well Not After That, soft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:27:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,969</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25227928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There are words they should exchange, things to be said, wisdom to be shared, and a future to be talked over. Somehow, all of that escapes, evaporating into thin air surrounding them, until there is nothing but the desire to kiss and be kissed in return. Hungry mouths meet, an old dance with a new rhythm connecting them, exciting in its rightness and intoxicating in the pleasure it sparks. </i> </p><p> A sequel to the previous fic :)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Life in the time of peace [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827703</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooniemouse/gifts">mooniemouse</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Mooniemouse asked for a sequel. And Indis asked, too... so I wrote a sequel. I hope you guys like it and that it brings a smile to your faces! &lt;3 </p><p>Huge thanks for betaing to MermaidSheenaz, who is absolutely my Faramir and is keeping her inept king somehow ruling this kingdom. Hannon le, hir nin! &lt;3 </p><p>I hope you enjoy! &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Aragorn wakes up, Anor is already crawling up the sky outside heavily-curtained windows. He squints in its light, filtering through the soft material, wondering why he is alone in the big bed, tangled among crisp sheets. </p><p>The spot next to him is vacated, but the pillow is still crumpled. The king shifts, pushing one hand beneath the blanket, feeling a ghost of warmth there. <em> Vacated recently. </em>Just this one notion is enough to bring a smile to his face, and it doesn’t disappear as minutes wear off, seeping like sand through his questing fingers. </p><p>It is with his eyes closed and his face half-turned into the linen that he becomes aware of soft footsteps somewhere at the back of the chamber. The <em> pat-pat-pat </em> gets closer, pauses for the tiniest of moments, before the mattress dips and moves, jolting him like a stray wave on a riverbank. He rolls forward, his unexpected fall met by the solid form of a known body. </p><p>
  <em> Faramir.  </em>
</p><p>“Good morning,” the steward whispers gently, and there is amusement in his voice that makes Aragorn huff. He waits until Faramir settles down, then nudges himself closer, half-consciously seeking the heat he knows will be there. He mumbles something out, incoherent in his state; a barely awake, bleary-eyed focus. A shiver runs down his spine, and Aragorn plasters himself to his steward’s side, sighing softly when a hand appears on his waist. </p><p>There is a layer of linen between them - the king’s shirt, plain and thin, an unnecessary attempt at modesty in these intimate conditions. He can’t remember whether he put it back on yesterday, or if it has never come off. Faramir’s touch blazes right through it, though, and all other thoughts fall away as Aragorn becomes aware that his prince is not wearing anything.</p><p>Fingers move lower, over the bunched up hem, until they encounter naked skin. The surprise this simple caress brings shocks a sharp gasp out of Aragorn, and the king’s whole body shifts forward. It should be scary, the realization that he is in a foreign bed, bared from the waist down, vulnerable flesh exposed to another man’s every whim. But Faramir is not just <em> any man, </em> he is the Steward of Gondor and the Prince of Ithilien, and as his fingertips quest lower, Aragorn considers other titles that could be bestowed upon him - titles that have the word <em> love </em> ingrained in them so deeply it becomes inseparable. </p><p>He pushes forward, and the hand on him moves, too, travelling to his backside. Long archer’s fingers, steady and agile, splaying around and encompassing his flesh in a secure grip. It doesn’t seem to be enough, so Aragorn tries to hike one leg up, hook it around Faramir’s hip, get closer still. His injury makes itself known, however, and he pauses, surprised at the twinge of pain running down his thigh. He has almost forgotten about his fall from Brego.  </p><p>It is not a crippling hurt, it does not require a healer’s help, and it is definitely not a matter of any concern. Bruises heal, scrapes scab over, and <em> he shall be alright in a few days. </em> He knows that well, he said it to the warden of the Houses of Healing the day before. But, even if there is no reason to worry about it extensively, it doesn’t mean that he won’t enjoy a bit of help, especially if it comes in the form of a delicate caress from his prince. </p><p>Careful fingers slide over tender flesh, mapping out hurting tendons and slightly swollen muscles, gentle over aching bones. Aragorn presses closer, hiding in Faramir’s neck, a displeased grunt escaping him when the trusty heat next to him moves. Faramir turns, twisting around until he is facing the king. His hand keeps Aragorn’s leg hiked up comfortably, his fingers continue their soothing path along the thigh, and as he pulls away slightly, the king finally opens his eyes to blink blearily at him. </p><p>There are words they should exchange, things to be said, wisdom to be shared, and a future to be talked over. Somehow, all of that escapes, evaporating into thin air surrounding them, until there is nothing but the desire to kiss and be kissed in return. Hungry mouths meet, an old dance with a new rhythm connecting them, exciting in its rightness and intoxicating in the pleasure it sparks. </p><p>The king doesn’t know who starts it, who grabs a handful of hair first or who is the one to moan invitingly, asking for more. It doesn’t seem to matter, not when they are busy exploring uncharted territories spreading with delicate skin over their bodies. Faramir’s hand worms its way under the shirt the king is wearing, sneaking around until it can grip Aragorn in a strong hold, keeping him close. The proximity makes the heat between them grow, and soon, with his tongue being stroked and sucked on by the prince, Aragorn realizes that they are both helplessly aroused. </p><p>The recognition of their state makes his cheeks flush red, and the king breaks the kiss. For a moment, he just lies there, his face resting in the crook of Faramir’s shoulder, his breathing turned into panting gasps. He feels hot, his skin on fire, and he is vaguely aware of a small, subtle motion of his hips, a mindless grinding happening without any of his conscious input. The steward picks up on the shifting and adjusts his grip, one hand back on Aragorn’s ass, pulling him forward, <em> encouraging him. </em> </p><p>“On my way back from the bathing chamber,” a whisper appears next to the king’s ear, and he stills, afraid to lose even the tiniest of words breathed out. “I picked up a jar of salve.” </p><p>It takes a moment for the full meaning of those low-murmured syllables to sink in, but when it does - accompanied by Faramir’s fingers questing lower and slipping between his legs - Aragorn can’t help the quiet whimper that escapes him. The air rushes out of him in a shivering exhale, and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut. He wants, by the Valar, <em> how he wants… </em>Somehow, it suddenly becomes crucial to lick and nibble on a delicate spot right under Faramir’s ear, and the king doesn’t even try to find any excuse for this. The prince seems to like it, judging by the way he squirms and bucks up against him, and Aragorn uses the time to put his thoughts in some kind of order. </p><p>“How do you want to…?” The question remains unfinished, because Aragorn can’t put the rest of the sentence together. Faramir’s fingers are rubbing against him, silently asking permission to enter, staying resolutely outside. <em> Driving him mad. </em> With startling clarity, he remembers the feeling of them plunging deep inside him no more than a few hours before, bestowing pleasures long-forgotten. </p><p>“You could take me, my king,” Faramir answers, tilting his head and licking a long strip over Aragorn’s neck, ending it with a sharp bite to the shell of his ear. It is not as finely shaped as an Elve’s, nor is it as sensitive, but the bite to it still makes Aragorn groan thinly. <br/>“I wouldn’t know what to do.” His answer is quiet, half-mumbled into Faramir’s neck, and it takes a long moment to get the rest out. His inexperience in such things, as ridiculous as it seems in the face of what they’re doing, may cause some hurt, and Aragorn won’t have that. </p><p>A hand threads through his hair and, with a deep, steadying breath, the king pulls his head up and away. His gaze finds Faramir’s briefly, then focuses on the tiny hair decorating the broad chest in front of him, as red as the curls on his prince’s head. <br/>“I know how the deed is done,” the king relies slowly. “I’ve spent enough time in the company of rangers to know what happened on the bedrolls next to mine…” He trails off, biting his lip. Faramir’s fingers brush right behind his ear, make him shudder. <br/>“But?” <br/>“I didn’t want that… not at first.” The king admits, licking his lips. “And when I did, there was never enough time. I <em> do </em> know how it’s done, in general. But I lack any sort of a first-hand experience.” <br/>“I could tell you what to do…” Faramir proposes, licking his lips. The movement captures Aragorn’s attention, and the king’s gaze follows the slow slide, almost forgetting what they are talking about. The tongue disappears, and Aragorn snaps out of the strange trance he had fallen into. He looks up, a brief meeting of eyes, then bites his lip. </p><p>“Or you could take me,” he mutters, leaning in to kiss his prince before he starts a litany of silly things that are swarming his mind. There is so much he wants to say, so many words all jumbling together in a long poem that speaks of love until they look like madness incarnate. <br/>“Are you sure?” Faramir asks once they break the kiss. Up close, he smells divine, a perfect mixture of sweetness and the familiar scent of fresh leaves. Aragorn lets it wash over him as he nods his agreement, amazed at the way Faramir’s eyes sparkle in delight. </p><p>Strong hands move around him, position him as Faramir moves away. There is a brief but deep kiss that leaves the king breathless with its intensity, before he finds himself on his front, face an inch from the pillow, legs stretched behind in a way that somehow doesn’t aggravate his injury. He blinks owlishly, feeling Faramir shift and move around him, the mattress dipping and bouncing slightly with his weight. There is an arm reaching out to the bedside table, grabbing a small jar that wasn’t there the previous evening, and the king has a brief moment to wonder at Faramir’s foresight, before the gravity of the situation filters into his mind. </p><p>He is not scared, far from it, actually - he feels as secure as ever, especially when those capable hands appear on his shoulders and travel down his back, hot through the thin linen. Clever fingers reach the hem and tug it up, prompting him to get rid of it clumsily. It is not a dignified position - it is not easy to undress when half of his weight rests on his elbows, and Aragorn cannot dig up even the smallest shred of <em> care. </em> Faramir’s hands roam over his skin, long swipes of heat, making him shiver and arch up into the caress. There is some shifting behind him and a hardness rubs against his thigh briefly, and Aragorn can’t help but move back, a mindless request for action. </p><p>The hands move lower, taking the warmth away from his back and to his ass. Nimble fingers spread him, tearing a moan out of his throat, and the king swallows convulsively in anticipation. He is certain the salve should be used. He is sure that Faramir knows it, too. Maybe his prince chose to cover himself instead of covering him? Maybe it works better this way? </p><p>Busy with thoughts racing through his head, Aragorn yelps when, instead of the predicted alien sensation of a man’s cock working its way inside him, he is met with something warm and slick. It travels over his ass, wet heat dipping low between his legs and dragging up to the base of his spine, and the shock of it is so great that the king loses his balance and falls face-first between soft sheets. The realization that Faramir’s tongue is exploring every inch of intimate skin is as surprising as it is arousing, and Aragorn whines into the pillow, smothering his cries before half of the citadel hears him. </p><p>“Faramir!” The name is moaned out between surprised gasps. It gets lost in the bed, somewhere between his hands clenching tightly around it, and by the huff of air fanning over his tailbone, Aragorn can say that he has been heard. </p><p>He groans incoherently when that nimble tongue pushes inside, bucking back in a silent request. His body is on fire, lust stoked so high he is no longer sure he could speak in any language he knows, and when Faramir pulls away briefly to ask something, he can barely focus on the question. <br/>“Aragorn?” The prince murmurs, pausing to place a kiss on his hip. More words follow, but they are all inconsequential. <em> Is it alright? Do you want to keep going?  </em></p><p>Ridiculous. </p><p>The king groans and spreads his legs wider, a frog-like sprawl unbefitting any crowned head. It is a sign of complete trust and a plea for more - one that Faramir understands without unnecessary explanations. </p><p>The jar of salve is brought back, and Faramir’s fingers dip inside, before they quest where his tongue has just been. Aragorn loses the track of time after that. He shivers and moans when Faramir’s hands explore him, preparing him for what is to come. Hot lips press soft kisses to his spine, curly hair cascades over his skin, tickling his sides and making him bow back. It lasts for a few long minutes, before the fingers disappear, almost unnoticed in the sea of pleasure. </p><p>Aragorn almost rips the pillow apart when Faramir’s length finally slides into him. </p><p>The moves are small at first, the pace as slow as troops moving uphill. The king is glad for the lazy rhythm - he is not entirely sure he would survive anything quicker. He is only a mortal man, not used to such pleasures, not capable of containing such fire within his guts. It is so very different from everything he has done before, so much fuller and <em> more… </em> He is certain now that it is not only the act itself that makes his head swim pleasantly, but that the blood of Numenor is in play also, making him sensitive and driving him mad. </p><p>“Are you alright?” Faramir asks quietly once he’s fully seated, both arms wrapping around Aragorn’s chest. The position is awkward, with him still sprawled on his front and Faramir weighing him down, but the king doesn’t mind. There is a sense of safety in this arrangement, an overwhelming feeling of protection washing over him, and he nods quickly. <br/>“Yes… oh Valar, <em> yes…” </em> His voice turns into a drawn-out hiss when one of Faramir’s hands slides lower, worming its way under his hips. Steady fingers wrap around his cock, and Aragorn gives a raspy groan, half-muffled in the pillow. </p><p>There is no more coherence after that. When Faramir starts to move, going smoothly from slow to fast, all the king can do is throw his head back and gasp, eyes squeezed shut, legs twitching in an attempt to accommodate the angle. </p><p>It is over too soon, an explosion of stars that renders him witless for a long time afterwards. He collapses on the bed, shivering and mumbling something that vaguely resembles Faramir’s name, until the prince is done, too, sliding to the side and gulping in rushed breaths. Through the haze, he can feel soft cloth moving over his skin, cleaning up the evidence of their union, and he wonders which part of their garments Faramir is using. Going by the gentle sensation, it could be his shirt, but Aragorn is too tired to even glance at what the prince is doing. </p><p>The blanket that has been thrown off somewhere in the past hour appears again, tugged around him with a series of uncoordinated pulls, and he sighs contentedly when the warmth at his side appears again. He turns to Faramir, presses his own body closer, and throws one arm around the heaving chest. A kiss is placed upon his head and he hums quietly. </p><p>There is a nagging thought at the back of his head, a prodding in his mind that wonders about just how <em> right </em> it feels to stay like this, basking in the light falling through curtains, swimming in their joined scents. Aragorn ignores it, deciding to enjoy the moment, tentatively thinking about what the future may bring. It provokes a flare of possessiveness inside him, and he tightens his arm around Faramir’s chest, bringing his leg up to hike it around his prince’s hip. There is a painful twinge of protest from his thigh and he hisses, wincing and pushing his face into Faramir’s shoulder. </p><p>“Aragorn?” Faramir asks carefully. “I hope I didn’t hurt you,” he inquires, sounding somewhat anxious. The king blinks his eyes open, then raises his head to look at him. <br/>“Hurt me?” He asks back, incredulous. “By Eru! You gave me pleasure beyond words!” He explains, sealing the statement with a kiss, tired and sloppy as it is. Faramir settles somewhat, but his hands pick up a soothing rhythm along Aragorn’s back, a swiping caress one would use on a spooked horse, and the king feels the need to clarify. “My leg might have taken a strain, but it is nothing serious, I assure you.” <br/>“Are you certain?” <br/>“Oh yes…” Happy beyond words, Aragorn suddenly feels playful. “It will require a longer stay in bed, of course.” He adds, settling against his prince once again, pressing a few light kisses just below Faramir’s ear. He can feel the shiver they cause and grins, satisfied. <br/>“Of course.” Faramir nods. “Am I to understand that your steward should tend to you in that time, my king?” <br/>“Naturally!” Aragorn agrees, dissolving into giggles. </p><p>He knows they can’t rationally keep it up for long. They have duties and obligations. There are emissaries to meet and councils to be attended. But it won’t hurt to stay in bed for another hour. And it is a very good idea to meet in it again, once the night comes. Happy, Aragorn closes his eyes with a contented sigh, smiling softly when another kiss is pressed to his forehead. </p>
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